


Once A Queen

by Chess_Blackfyre



Series: Tales of Gramarye [3]
Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: BAMF Women, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Murder, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Uther gets what's coming to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24746608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chess_Blackfyre/pseuds/Chess_Blackfyre
Summary: King Arthur’s conception: different versions, but the same story, and none where Igraine gets a say.Or, how Igraine kills her kidnapper, abandons the kid he forced on her and runs off with one Madam Mim.
Relationships: Madam Mim (Disney)/Igraine Pendragon
Series: Tales of Gramarye [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602331
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Once A Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I'm separating this out from the main story because it gets...kind of dark. Okay not even kind of.
> 
> The rape scene isn't graphic, but I wanted to put the warnings out just in case.

Igraine knew from the moment she saw the child that she could never love it.

This 'prince' Arthur was, biologically, her son. But in her heart, Queen Igraine of Cornwall had only daughters. To her this bastard, this parasite that had grown insider her body was only Uther’s son. He would always be Uther’s son. Uther with the pawing hands and breath that almost always smelled of wine.

“A son,” The King of Camelot smiled, when the mewling, squirming thing had been properly wrapped and presented to him. “I knew it.” The look of fondness in his eyes was revolting to her, reminding Igraine too much of that night months ago when he had trapped her in his arms and in his bed, pressed his face to hers.

Luckily, she wouldn’t have endure his attention for too long. All focus was on the child, its mother content to stay in the shadows. Immediately the babe was spirited off to be cared for by the wet nurses and other minders, and the queen broodmare of Camelot was finally left alone.

With a sigh, Igraine leaned back into her pillows, and closed her eyes. She supposed it had been too much to ask, to give birth to a girl. After Uther had killed her husband, ripped her away from her life and her children, it was clear to Igraine that God had stopped listening to her prayers months ago.

But as she started to drift off to sleep, the queen could hear the caw of a raven from outside her window. At least _someone_ cared about her.

* * *

"What is that fucker thinking?" the witch muttered under her breath. "A geriatric pregnancy is much more dangerous, higher rates of miscarriage and mother's death."

"Uther isn't exactly the brightest candle in the chapel," Igraine chuckles. "He still--ngh!" She grits her teeth through the pain. "He still doesn't understand how much I hate him."

"Well," Mim mixes the herbs with the gruel and brings it over to her to taste. "Lucky for you then. An unsuspecting enemy is all the easier to take."

The taste was much more pleasant than the droughts provided by the royal physicians, and after a few sips Igraine actually started to feel better. The hand is cool against her feverish skin, and strokes her hair as the woman falls back asleep.

* * *

Queen Igraine of Cornwall was such a famous beauty that bards and skalds across Britannia wrote songs about bedding her. Even when she was old enough to have two daughters grown. She wants to blame them so, so much. Perhaps they were the ones who put the idea into his head.

“Don’t worry dearest,” Uther smiled down at her, as if the blood of her husband was not on his hands, his weight on her the only thing keeping her on the bed. “Just lie there, it’ll all be over soon.”

The smell of wine still made her stomach turn, in ways that had nothing to do with morning sickness.

* * *

As soon as it is confirmed that she is with child, he locks her in one of the tallest towers of the castle, the long winding staircase leading up to a comfortably furnished room that was to be her prison cell. Here, she will be kept under close watch as Uther’s putrid seed took root and grew within her. She steps out from her balcony and looks and ponders. Not the horizon, its sunrises and its sunsets, nor does she think of the buildings that scatter the landscape. Her gaze is firmly on the ground below. She thinks of escape, of freedom. Throwing herself from the balcony would do that, and rob Uther of his precious heir in one fell swoop.

No. She will live, if only out of spite.

* * *

A purple bird lands on her balcony railing. Igraine thinks nothing of it. Then the bird begins to speak.

"You know, when I heard he locked you up in the highest room in the tallest tower, I didn't think they were being literal." A puff of smoke, and the bird was a woman. A lean figure, dressed in purple and black, sitting on the balcony with no fear of falling off. Her long hair was dyed lavender, and her eyes had a sharpness to them that few would call friendly.

Igraine grabbed the knife off of her plate and held it before her. "Who are you? What do you want?

"My name is Madam Mim," she offers with a flare of her hand. "And I've come to offer my assistance."

Igraine knew little of magic or witches, but she knew the old warning: all magic comes with a price. That likely held especially true when strange witches came to call. She was a queen. She knew how little people did out of the goodness of their hearts. "If you're offering to get rid of my troubles,” Igraine’s eyes slid down to her swollen belly, “it’s a bit too late for that.”

The sorceress chuckled. "Not quite. You're too far along for that to be anything but a danger."

* * *

She has a dream about a sorcerer. Well, perhaps 'dream' wasn't the right word. She knew she was asleep, remembered doing so. But she also knew that this was...real. As real as the world she would face when she awakened.

“You are carrying a son, a boy who will bring about a great kingdom,” the Sorcerer promises, gaze serious yet pitying. A queen should never be pitied. “He will bring unity to the realm, and peace to Camelot. This I do promise you."

So. This was what all of this for. Ripping her from her family, from her life, from her _everything_ to serve as broodmare for this ‘great king’. She has half a mind to smother it the moment it was born, to smash its head down on the flagstones below. But, no, Igraine had promised herself she would live. If she was to ever see her daughters again, to be rid of pawing hands and wine-stained breath, she needed to live.

The wizard says not a word of what will happen to her. If she dies in childbirth, he would probably gaze upon her corpse with that same pitying look. ‘Poor Queen Igraine’, he would cluck his tongue, but go back to enacting this great plan.

* * *

“I could give you some of my venom,” Mim offers, teeth grazing over Igraine’s inner thigh. “Slip a little in his cup, and watch the life drain out of him."

“No,” the Queen moans. “Too much can go wrong. Someone could see, he could offer me a drink. I want—“ she lets out a shaky, wanton breath as Mim’s tongue dips between her folds. “I want to look him in the eyes. I want him to know that I’ve avenged myself.”

“You,” the witch’s tongue is replaced by long, slender, _clever_ fingers, “Have excellent taste.” 

* * *

Three months after Arthur is born, Uther whispers into her ear, asking if she would like to join him in his chambers. Tonight. Of course, when the king asks you something, he’s never _really_ asking, with his hands on her body and that look in his eye. Igraine suppresses a shudder and gives a polite smile, knowing that he’d take satisfaction in a ‘yes’ and would only ignore a ‘no’. 

Uther laughs and returns his attention to the feast, toasting with his lords and leaving her back in the shadows. A longing look is given towards a nearby carving knife, dreams of sinking it into his black, rotten heart. But she soon thinks better of it.

Igraine reaches for a goblet of ale, as she feels a comforting hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t need to turn her head to know the bird is once more at the windowsill.

* * *

Igraine's grip on the sheets relaxed as she came down from her glorious high, languid and boneless on the bed as Mim continued to lap at her release like a cat with a bowl of cream, dragging her tongue over her thighs once the queen's folds became too sensitive.

"I still haven't figured out your angle, you know."

Mim looks up, face uncomprehending. "What do you mean?"

"You are young, beautiful, intelligent, powerful...and despite the bawdy bard's tales, I'm a woman closing in on forty, and more a broodmare than a queen," she gestures to her rounded belly. "Yet you offer me your help, your knowledge, your venom, and your bed." A whistful sigh. "What do you possibly get out of this?"

A sharp laugh. "While I appreciate the compliments, in truth, I'm the craddle robber in this situation."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm old enough to be your grandmother, love," she smiles, and props herself up on her elbow. Igraine searches her lover's face, and finds only sincerity.

"Truly?"

"Mhm-hm. Magic is great for your skin."

So many questions brush through Igraine's mind--how old is she? How is she maintaining her youth? Does it have to do with her shapeshifting? Before she realizes that she'd been knocked off track her original question. "Now you're distracting me, and you didn't answer the question."

A strange look crosses over the witch's face and for one terrifying second, she's afraid Mim is about to confess her love. "It's not that I love you or anything," Mim admits, much to Igraine's relief. "Not that you're not great but, well..."

"You're not the type?"

A smile and a shrug. "I hate to see you trapped like this. Besides," her hand strokes the outside of her thigh. "Few things get me going like talks of regicide."

"You lusty beast," Igraine laughs as they begin again.

* * *

That night, in Uther’s bedroom, Igraine suggests that perhaps they could try something different for once. The king blinks at her, and simply asks what she would prefer they do. The woman responded by flipping them over, so now she was the one straddling him. Uther leered, and bade her continue, his hands gripping the back of her thighs.

With a smile, Igraine placed her weight forward, and leaned down to whisper into his ear, “I’m definitely going to enjoy this.”

His expression changed from arousal to confusion as he felt the bite of pain. A yelp and the spider scurried from its place on his leg. A witch smiled as she sat at the foot of the bed. "He's all yours, love."

Uther tries to yell, but his voice would not come. The muscles of his throat seize, leaving him only able to breathe. The poison crawls upwards, locking his face. He could not so much as look away.

“Don’t worry dearest,” Igraine cooed, smiling down at him. “Just lie there, it’ll all be over soon.” Igraine savors the look of fear in his eyes before she places the pillow over his face.

He dies trapped and terrified. Small justice.

When it is over, Mim leans over and presses a kiss to her neck. 

* * *

A scream cut through the castle walls--a scream coming from the king’s bedroom.

“My husband is dead,” the queen sobbed, falling to her knees, as guards all but broke down the door as they flooded into the room. “My husband is dead!”

* * *

In the dark of the night, little Prince Arthur was sent, disguised, to the castle home of Sir Ector. There the boy would be fostered until the time was right and he could return to take his rightful place. It had been agreed on, by Uther’s most trusted friends and advisors, that whoever killed the king would be after the young prince next. His safety would be their top priority.

It was only after the babe was sent off that any real thought turned towards his mother. But that was when the knights and lords realized that she was no longer there. They had seen her sitting there for hours, quiet and bereaved, a mere shadow of herself. Where had she gone? When had she gone? Had the assassins struck again?! The castle was barred, the staff questioned. But the prince’s mother could not be found. Camelot had lost their king and queen in one fell swoop.

When Sir Ector is told that this is but a poor babe whose mother abandoned it, the messenger has no idea how right he was.

* * *

In the dark of the night, Igraine laughs as the wind whips her face and hair. She rode on the back of a dragon towards her daughters, towards her _freedom._ Igraine of Cornwall will never again return to Camelot, never again look upon the face of the child forced upon her. This is something that she will never come to regret.

**Author's Note:**

> Michael: "Tell me, Merlin, how is my daughter? Is she well?"
> 
> Merlin, knowing full well that Maeve is currently going down on Igraine as the two discuss cold-blooded (if justified) murder: *sweating*
> 
> Whelp. Leave your comments down below.


End file.
